


Aletheia

by EllariaDorne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Power Struggle, dom!Bedelia in later chapters, maybe...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllariaDorne/pseuds/EllariaDorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Bedelia test boundaries at the beginning of their relationship.</p><p>'Somewhere between them exists the truth, fragile and mercurial and dancing on the edge of a knife'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aletheia

**Author's Note:**

> Aletheia - the Ancient Greek personification of truth.

He thinks she only sees what he allows. Glimpses to whet her appetite and leave her wracked and wanting for him. For them.

She would like to believe she sees everything. Slicing away his carefully crafted persona with a cool indifference, belied only by the intensity of her gaze.

Somewhere between them exists the truth, fragile and mercurial and dancing on the edge of a knife.

Beneath her pristine exterior Bedelia has always been a woman of temper, of passion hot and immediate and demanding. Her careful control has earned her many adjectives over the years, cold _frigid_ prickly, snarled and whispered in hallways and classrooms, mouthed behind cupped hands and hidden in supercilious smiles. But there is nothing she treasures so much as the protection it affords her. The invisibility.

_Bedelia isn't a threat._

_Bedelia couldn't hurt a fly._

_She's fine porcelain, polished glass._

_Press too hard and she'll shatter. Look too long and you'll see only your own reflection._

 

Sometimes the irony is too rich, and she chokes down her third glass of Sauvignon Blanc through a smirk, to stop herself screaming it to an oblivious world.

 

\--

Hannibal Lecter was an exception. It was prudent to remember there was always one. And yet he caught her off guard, ruffled her practiced, professional demeanour.

Upon entering her world he had sized her up, eyeing her silently for longer than was strictly acceptable. She couldn't read him, his face blank save for the quirk of his lips, an exaggerated and calculated disinterest. She stood statue still, eyebrow raised, allowing him to examine her with all the compassion of a vulture as she felt a vague prickle of irritation settle at the base of her spine.

This was mistake number two, allowing him to provoke her, to unearth impulses long and forcibly buried. She ached to slap the sly grins from his face, to tear at him until he revealed the secrets he so smugly dangled before her. She hated him and it fed her, kept her warm, alone in her big, soulless house.

She wanted him.

 

\--

He has arrived on time as usual to his third session with the inestimable Dr Du Maurier, utterly unperturbed by her relative authority in their burgeoning relationship. At ease in her sacred space, where she should hold all the cards.

Following shortly behind him she imagines her hands suddenly around his throat, her shin hitting the side of his knee with precisely calculated impact. Enough to down him and enough to hurt, but not enough to break. Not so soon. Uncivil. Unwise too, breaking your toys before you've had your fun.

Instead she shakes her head, exhales slowly into the empty air and forcibly unclenches her hands, smoothing them over her sleek, pressed skirt. Navy, fitted to her lean silhouette, classic and yet subdued. Everything she has strived to present to anyone who had bothered to look. Years of work will not be undone by nothing more than clever phrases giftwrapped in sibilant, European syllables.

 

'Dr Du Maurier, you seem tense' he offers, seating himself without being invited, a careless arrogance that galls her.

She smiles a precise smile, a half hearted attempt to indicate that he is straying close to the boundaries already. She has never allowed herself to be exposed in her work, she prides herself in being competent enough to pick through the wreckage of her patient's psyches without offering pieces of herself to soothe them.

'I am perfectly well Dr Lecter, thank you for your concern' she pauses meaningfully, 'but we are not here to discuss me'.

A firm segue, one he is not yet bold enough to ignore, but she notes his eyes flash with a hunger she recognises. Oh how difficult it is for those such as them to be denied their truth, the little scraps of knowledge that become the feast.

 

\--

He watches her reactions closely as she invites him into her home, attempts to intuit her movements behind him in the movement of the air as she follows, steps precise and measured. Heels so sharp something low in his stomach squirms to think of the damage they could do.

He pushes slowly, testing her. She remains outwardly reserved, but pride compels him to imagine fissures in her composure.

He cannot fathom her. Ice and rage all coiled into tight muscle and dazzling intellect, poured into a wardrobe more expensive than most people's cars. But oh how it's worth it.

She is a muzzled tiger, sleek and prowling, sometimes he's so sure he can almost see bloodlust rising in her eyes. He wants to get under her skin, to probe and poke until she snaps and goes for his throat. He has no doubt that he would be victorious in their hypothetical power struggle, but he is bored, and watching her fight her own nature is as good a distraction as any.

 

\--

Dr Lecter is boring her today. His pathology is not as interesting as he assumes it to be. His mannerisms are grating on her strained nerves.

She imagines him kneeling collared before her, gagged by his distasteful tie, pleading silently.

Her fingers twitch.

She marshals her concentration to note his silence, an enquiring expression softening striking features. She kicks herself for her lapse in judgement. If anyone were to notice, it would be her most observant patient.

'I apologise,' she mutters, 'I am perhaps preoccupied today.'

'Please, continue', she gestures, eager to escape the focus of his laser precise study, etching his interest down the side of her throat, watching her pulse trip as she attempts to regain her upper hand.

'May I ask what it is that has you so... preoccupied?', he savours the word, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other in a weak facade of casual enquiry.

To her horror she feels a slight flush colour sharp cheekbones.

His nostrils flare like a shark scenting blood. Thin lips curl into a smile, a mockery of concern.

'Nothing you need concern yourself with' she offers with a hasty, snide smile. Too hasty. She is caught, and she needs to retreat before he forces his advantage and pushes too far.

He merely nods, allowing her respite without the battle she had anticipated. She feels her jaw clench as he re-enters his monologue, watching her more carefully than ever.

 

\--

Interesting. Something has his favourite psychiatrist on the run.

He imagines he can hear the blood rush to her face in the silence that hangs after his impertinent line of questioning. Whatever was distracting her has her rattled, and he aches to know her, to peel her open and revel in her dirty little secrets.

But half the fun is in the chase. And she is immensely entertaining, meeting his gaze head on and fixing her gorgeous lips in the rushed imitation of a mean smile. There is anger in those glacial eyes, but she is so deliciously desperate to keep her cool.

He feels himself stir at the thought of their inevitable conflict. How she will look at the mercy of her temper, blonde hair framing features taut with stress. She will be glorious.

But not today.

A muscle stretched to breaking and allowed to recover is all the stronger for it. If they are to burn he wants them to immolate. Sacrificed violently to their shared truth. He can wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> first thing i've ever written and finished! i've a mind to continue it cause i love me some bedelia on top. let me know!


End file.
